Boggart
by Alohaemora
Summary: The war may be over and won, but two Weasley brothers learn that the horrors of their past will never truly disappear.


6 May 1998

Percy placed the cardboard box full of his clothes down on the floor and stared around at the bedroom. It looked exactly like he remembered it, and yet, it felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The familiar dents and bumps on the ceiling, which he had once hated, now filled his heart with fierce nostalgia. And the burn stains on the wall, from the time the twins—aged seven—had accidentally set fire to his curtains, filled him with a rush of mingled fondness and remorse. He had yelled himself hoarse at the twins that day. Swallowing heavily, he reached out and touched the charred, yellow edges of the curtain.

He would give everything he had and more to see Fred set fire to his curtains, one more time.

"How does it feel to be back?"

Percy turned around. Ron was standing in the door frame, holding a cardboard box full of Percy's books. Together, they had spent the morning emptying out Percy's little flat in London and bringing all of his possessions back to the Burrow, where he would be living for the rest of the summer.

Percy smiled. "Strange," he said quietly.

Ron nodded. "I know what you mean," he said seriously. "It feels like I've aged a decade since the last time I was here."

Percy stared at his younger brother. When Percy had left home, three years earlier, Ron had been a moody teenager. In just three years, he had turned into a fierce, loyal, incredibly brave man. And Percy had missed it all.

"Perce?"

Percy blinked. "What?"

"Where d'you want me to put these books?"

"Oh," Percy shook himself. "Er—you can just leave them by the desk over there."

Ron nodded and moved to deposit the books at the foot of Percy's desk.

Percy turned to look out of his bedroom window, from which he had a clear view of the Burrow's back garden. His heart gave a little jolt. George was lying in the overgrown grass by the pond, staring up at the sky. A six-bottle crate of Odgen's Firewhisky sat by his feet. Even as Percy watched, George took a long swing from the bottle in his hand. Percy's stomach twisted with a dull, keening guilt.

"He's lucky Mum's not home to catch him like that," Ron said in a low voice.

Percy looked around. Ron had joined him by the window and was staring at George, as well.

"Where is Mum?" Percy asked, turning his back on the window and kneeling down to retrieve a stray sock from the floor.

"She and Dad went to Hogsmeade," Ron said in an odd voice. "To make the—funeral arrangements."

Percy closed his eyes, wishing he hadn't asked.

"And Bill and Ginny went to Muriel's, to clean out the guestrooms…and everyone else is at Hogwarts, helping with the rebuilding," Ron continued valiantly, in a rather obvious attempt to move past his previous revelation. "I'll probably head over there, too, once I've helped you unpack."

"You don't have to stay for my sake," Percy said softly. "I'm sure they can use all the help they can get at—"

"It's fine," Ron interrupted, bending down and picking up Percy's cauldron. Then, he glanced back at the window, frowning, and Percy realized that Ron was staying back at the Burrow for two reasons.

Two brothers.

For a long while, they worked in silence, shelving books and folding clothes into drawers. They could have used magic and finished the job in a tenth of the time, but Percy knew that both he and Ron were doing everything by hand for the same reason. It was much easier for Percy to ignore the shards of glass— _Fred_ , _Fred_ , _Fred_ —that seemed to have taken residence in his heart since the Battle, when he was keeping his hands busy.

Suddenly— "Oh, bloody hell."

Percy turned around. Ron had dropped a stack of books to the floor and sprinted to the bedroom window, his face set and white. Heart racing, Percy hurried to his brother's side and looked through the glass. His stomach dropped.

George was hunched forward, shoulders shaking violently, as he repeatedly struck the grass with a bottle of Firewhisky.

"I'll go," Ron said quickly, sweeping out of the room and sprinting down the staircase.

Percy rubbed his eyes under his glasses. He knew why Ron had not asked Percy to accompany him. It was for the same reason Ron had insisted on staying at the Burrow to help Percy unpack. While George had been generally withdrawn and conspicuously absent during the past few days, he had yet to say a single word to Percy. It was Ron and Ginny who were taking it in turns, attempting to drag George out of the dark place he was so obviously trapped in. Percy wasn't exactly sure that their efforts were producing visible effects, but George seemed to respond particularly well to Ron, nonetheless.

Percy watched from the window as Ron dashed out onto the lawn and grasped George by the shoulders, forcibly restraining him, saying words Percy couldn't hear. And George, though he looked unwilling at first, gradually quieted. Percy was seized, once again, by the painful realization that his siblings had grown up without him.

Swallowing, Percy turned back around to face his old bedroom. If he finished the rest of the unpacking with magic before Ron came back upstairs, then they could both leave for Hogwarts sooner, perhaps bringing George with them. The reconstructive efforts at the castle would provide a much more effective distraction than the memories that haunted his old bedroom.

Percy drew his wand. Then, suddenly, he froze.

A soft rattling sound was coming from his desk drawer.

Percy clenched his wand, staring at the drawer apprehensively. Bill, as the family's only curse-breaker, had taken it upon himself to conduct a thorough sweep of the house before they had moved back in, identifying and removing any foul, ill-intentioned enchantments that the Death Eaters had left when they had come calling during the Easter holidays. _Had Bill missed something_?

The soft rattling came again, this time triggering something in Percy's memory—the voice of his third year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Osborn Trickelbank: _"Boggarts are particularly fond of inhabiting dark, confined spaces, such as wardrobes, drawers, and cupboards."_

Percy released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was just a _Boggart_. He could handle it by himself.

Raising his wand, he pointed it at the drawer. " _Alohomora._ "

With a muffled creak, the drawer opened.

Percy screamed.

* * *

 _Moments earlier_ _…_

* * *

"I'm fine, Ron."

"Come inside, George. It's bloody hot out here."

"Are you bloody deaf? I'm _fine_ , Ron."

"Yeah? What's your plan?" Ron demanded angrily. "Are you just going to sit out here and drink all aftern—?"

"Do I really look like a bloke with a plan?"

Ron stared at his elder brother. George was still trembling slightly, his posture still unsteady, the whites of his eyes rimmed with red. But he was wearing the defiant, resolute expression that the twins had always worn so well. The only difference was that his eyes were missing their usual spark of good humor, their characteristic twinkle. They looked strangely lost without it.

Ron shook his head, turned around, and headed back in the direction of the house. He was halfway across the yard when he heard it—a terrible scream from Percy's bedroom window. Ron's heart stopped. There was a soft _thud_ from behind him as George dropped his Firewhisky bottle and leaped to his feet, his bloodshot eyes widening in alarm. He had heard it, too.

Without even a moment's hesitation, without even a fleeting glance at one another, the two brothers bolted down the remainder of the yard and raced into the Burrow. They took the stairs two at a time, sprinting down the second floor landing and tumbling into Percy's bedroom.

And then, in a split-second, Ron felt every breath leave his body, as a horrible, chilling déjà vu stole over him.

Fred was lying on the bedroom floor, unblinking, unmoving, and plainly—

"NO!" Percy cried in a strangled voice. "NO, GEORGE! It's not him! It's only a Bog—!"

But it was too late. George had taken one look at the horrific scene before him and stumbled back out of the bedroom, thundering down the staircase.

Ron made to go after him, but—

" _R-riddikulus_!" Percy croaked.

With a loud _crack_ , Fred's pale, still body began to bleed from a deep wound in his forehead.

" _R-r-riddikulus_!"

 _Crack!_ Fred was missing an eye, and the right side of his face was bashed inward. Percy's breathing became raw and ragged. Ron couldn't stand it any longer.

"Get out of the way," he told Percy severely, stepping in front of his brother.

Gripping his wand, Ron braced himself for the grotesquely familiar, enormous, hairy, milky-eyed spider.

But then, there was a _crack_ , and the unexpected sight before him caused a fresh wave of terror to build up in Ron's throat like bile.

Hermione was writhing on the floor, her eyes rolling backwards, screaming— _screaming_ —the words that had plagued Ron's nightmares for six weeks. But now, he was forced to see, with his own eyes, every ounce of pain, and agony, and anguish that she had felt—

"We found it—we found it—PLEASE!"

Ron was only dimly aware of Percy yelling out in fright. And suddenly, Ron was not in Percy's bedroom, at all. He was back in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, helpless, terrified, utterly wrecked, shattered, as he banged on the walls and clawed at the door…

"It isn't the real sword—it's a copy— _just a copy_!"

But then, he remembered that they had escaped. Dobby had saved them, helped them to Shell Cottage…and finally, another memory came to Ron's mind—him and Hermione, sitting on the rocky cliffside, listening to the soothing ebb and flow of the sea, as the cold, salty wind whipped about their faces…Hermione was laughing, eyes sparkling, at some stupid joke he'd told…

Raising a trembling hand, Ron pointed his wand at Hermione's sobbing, struggling form.

" _Riddikulus_!"

 _Crack!_ Hermione stopped screaming. In fact, she was smiling, now, her soft, gentle smile, as she lay on the floor, her hair and clothes fluttering in the soft, seaside breeze…

A warm, fierce rush of confidence filled Ron's body. He pointed his wand again, squaring his shoulders. " _Riddikulus_!"

The Boggart exploded, erupting into a million infinitesimal wisps of smoke, and disappeared.

Ron stared at the floor for several minutes. Then, without a word, he dropped his wand and fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

For a long while, all that could be heard in the little bedroom was the two brothers' heavy, jagged breathing.

Then— "Ron," Percy whispered. "Ron, why was—that—your Boggart?"

Ron ignored his brother, clutching his hair so tightly that he could feel his knuckles whitening.

"Ron—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Percy," Ron said roughly.

"But Ron, if that's—whoever did— _that_ —we can't let them get away—"

"They won't," Ron said harshly. "They're dead."

Percy inhaled sharply and fell quiet. Ron felt a twinge of guilt. But then, he thought of Hermione's twisted, tormented face, and a surge of nausea overcame him. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

Another awful silence seemed to fill the room, stretching between them. Ron tried to organize himself, organize his thoughts—but it was too hard. He had no idea where George had disappeared to, and he had just relived the two worst nights of his life…and Percy…Percy had seen it…

"Should we look for George?"

Ron glanced at his brother. Percy's face was still white to his lips beneath his freckles.

"There's no point," Ron said hoarsely. "He could be halfway across the country by now. But if he's not back by dinner, we'll go after him." He paused, swallowing heavily. "Perce, don't tell Hermione—"

"I won't," Percy whispered. Then, with a shuddering breath, he cradled his face in his palms. "What do we do now, Ron?"

Ron cleared his throat, glancing at his wristwatch. "We should probably get to Hogwarts. I told Harry and Hermione I'd—"

"No, Ron," Percy's voice was choked and numb. "I meant—what do we _do_ now? What do we…how do we…?" he trailed off shakily.

Ron stared at his brother. Suddenly, he heard George's angry voice in his head: _"Do I really look like a bloke with a plan?"_

His heart constricted overwhelmingly with emotion. And then, for truly the first time in four days, it hit Ron, all at once—how much he had lost, how much they had _all_ lost, how much they would never, ever be able to get back. They would never be the same people again. Ron would never again be the naïve, little boy who had only heard of Voldemort in newspaper clippings and third-person accounts. He would never again be oblivious to death, to destruction, to the dull, ever-present ache of losing a loved one. He would never hear Fred's laugh again. He would never see Fred's eyes light up in amusement. He would never—

The sharp, harrowing thoughts lodged themselves in Ron's throat, tearing at him from within, and the pain was too much, and he couldn't hold it in any longer—and he broke, for Fred, for George, for his mother, and his father…for Hermione, for Harry, for Ginny…Lupin, Tonks…Tonks's mother, left alone to care for a three-week-old baby…

And then Percy was there, and he clung to Ron for all he was worth, his eyes shining with tears, as well. Because for all their differences, they weren't so very different at all: both shadows of their past selves, two lost boys in a new world, struggling to find their way back to the surface.

* * *

Author's Note:

Oof. That was really heavy. Sorry about that. :'(

This was again for the Cinema Competition. The prompt was The Dark Night: Write about the dark, or alternatively, angst (I think I tackled both in this story). And my optional quote was: "Do I really look like a guy with a plan?"

I hope you guys liked it. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Ari


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